


Quackity's Love Story

by Modivian



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Dancing and Singing, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Falling In Love, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Grass, Forbidden Love, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, No Sex, No Smut, Platonic Cuddling, Quackity is 21, Singing, TommyInnit is 21, Tubbo is 21 Years Old, philza comes in later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29146149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Modivian/pseuds/Modivian
Summary: “Quackity, what the hell is up with you?” Wilbur asks as Tommy lingers; Techno ignores them and saunters into the house like he owns the place.Quackity looks between the two paying attention to him—that being Wilbur and Tommy—and discloses in a low voice, “guys, I met Obama today.”Or: //Quackity—a drug-addicted college student who distributes to his friends—sees Obama from afar one day.  He does not expect for the man to appear in his life more and more, but he does, and he is not really complaining.Through miscommunications, conflicts, rash decisions, and healing, Quackity's life slowly becomes something that he would have never expected it to be.  But maybe it is for the better.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Barrack Obama
Comments: 32
Kudos: 28





	1. We Waved

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! <3
> 
> The characters in this fiction are intended to NOT be taken as the real deal. Please note that I do not ship these two in real life, this is a crack fic meant to be taken as a joke.
> 
> WARNING: Drug Use

Quackity blearly wakes in the morning from the sun rays shining directly in his eyes from his window. His head is foggy and his body aches, stiff with every movement. He throws the covers over his head in irritation, questioning indignantly as to why the curtains aren’t sealed shut to prevent such an early morning annoyance, but then his memory comes back. 

Right. He had gotten drunk with some friends last night and… He’s pretty sure one of them blabbered about shooting stars and started hanging out his window. _Fucking Wilbur_ , Quackity thinks with a half-scoff half-chuckle, rubbing at his face under the covers as he tries helplessly to wake himself. 

There’s something he needs to do today. Or at least, the sense of responsibility seems to pull at him, pressuring him to get out of bed. The first thing he does is close his window and curtains while stretching to rid the fatigue in his muscles, then checks his phone. Instantly, that sense of responsibility makes sense. 

_Crap, I need to be in class in 20 minutes._

He immediately scurries into the bathroom to get ready, leaving his phone to flop on the bed. He manages to conjure a manageable appearance with extra cologne to cover any lingering scent of the alcohol he had drunk last night and jets out the door, grabbing his keys on the way out.

He manages to enter a full minute before his class starts. It’s a college course, one of the core curriculums—history—that he is taking for his freshmen year. He still has yet to decide on a career path, but he wants to be a singer; but those that manage to make a career out of such a profession are few and far, so he’s trying his luck at college.

It’s the only class for today, so he drives home a couple of hours later with no responsibilities left for the day. Homework is caught up, assignments are wrapped up from yesterday’s grind, and studying can be put off for tomorrow. He decides to use the rest of the evening’s time to take a walk and clear his head.

He does not take his car even though it is a four-mile walk, but he has the keys dangling in his pocket, easily grabbable by the lanyard that hangs out. He wants to enjoy the perfect temperature that the air carries on a scantily cloudy sky on the late spring’s eve. He has a destination though. The hilltop, one of his favorite places to just relax in peace.

Quackity is a social bird. He often hangs out with his friends, whether that translates in nights of drinking together or drugs and weed shared between them in the ungodly hours of the night. Though as much as Quackity enjoys the rowdy, bustling crowds of parties or company of loud friends with endless chatter, peace is something he craves in the moments in between. 

And he finds that piece here, on this hilltop. In a way, it resembles that famous HollyWood spot always seen in movies, usually the romantic ones. The one that overlooks the city and lets the eyes rest on the brilliant blended colors of Los Angeles. 

Except this spot is void of any fame. Nobody knows about it, at least to Quackity’s knowledge. He’s never seen anybody else up here, even if it only veers off the main walkway by only a few meters behind a thicket _just_ broad enough to cover the spot from inattentive eyes. 

That walkway is also just about always empty, too. So it gives Quackity a lot of freedom to come here and sing to his heart’s content, guitar in hand as he plays out tunes that ease the stresses in his head. He does just that as he settles into his spot on the lush grass for this evening.

Today’s song is just a light tune, one he has been practicing. He has yet to get the lyrics thought out, so he hums where he would think words would fit. When he decides to pause for a moment and lean against the metal railing skirting the edge, he sees something that will change his life forever. Something he never expected to see with his own eyes.

Just below, where the cliff lets him oversee the nice part of town, a black fancy Cadillac pulls up on the road closest under him that is currently void of other traffic. His eyes catch on it curiously, and he watches as three bulky tall men gracefully maneuver out of the vehicle before seeming to go in a practiced formation that lines the backseat door. 

_What, is the president there or something?_ Quackity jokes sarcastically to himself. But then his eyes bug out when Barack Obama himself exits the Cadillac, righting his suit before walking into the fancy large two-story house just ahead, the three what Quackity now realizes to be body-guards following closely behind. 

“What the _Hell?_ ” Quackity asks with utter disbelief. Quietly, as if somehow the president, probably quarter mile-distance away, might hear him somehow. Quackity flinches when the president seems to do just that, looking at the cliff face before his eyes seem to look _directly_ into Quackity’s own; just like some kind of sniper. 

Instantly Quackity goes rigid under the overwhelming attention that such a powerful man carries. But he manages to control himself before he can take the impulse to run and duck into the bushes; instead he steels himself and to the president’s still-held gaze, manages a wave that hopefully from this distance does not look as tense as it is. 

And Quackity could _swear_ the _president_ just smiles and gives a tiny wave back before heading into that fancy home. “That was _so fucking weird, I’m going to die_ aren’t I,” Quackity says as he immediately takes that former impulse and nestles himself into the thicket. 

He had not been paying much attention, but he’s pretty sure he saw the bodyguards follow president Obama’s gaze. Quackity is pretty sure they saw him. _Fuck I’m gonna wake up with a horse head on my bed in the morning._

Quackity wishes he had some drugs on him to queel the overwhelming anxiety he feels at the moment, but at the same time not. Seeing such powerful authority right in front of him, the _highest_ authority in the fucking _country_ , makes him want to strip himself clean of every single smudge of alchol and drugs he’s _ever_ taken. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Quackity says, stretching out the curse. Again, he is whispering. There is a small bit of panic poking at him, telling him that somehow the body guards are either climbing the cliff to give him a drug test or running up the hill on that walkway at thirty miles an hour to come and incarcerate his ass for all his sins. And for even _looking_ at the President of America. And maybe take him to church because he needs Jesus.

With his ears on full alert as he pauses to listen to whether his nonsensical theories are coming true or not, Quackity decides that, after hearing no such body-guards or police racing towards him, he decides to inch his way back to the cliff and peer over through the bottom of the railing. 

When he does, it almost scares him more that the body-guards are all gone. For a moment he _actually_ thinks that one of them might be coming after him, and he quickly glances at the cliff surface to make sure. Then he sees one of the body-guards at the door of the house, so static that Quackity almost had not caught his presence.

At that, he backs away, scooching back into the thicket with his arms clinging to his guitar, and lets out a sigh of relief. “Jesus, what the fuck,” Quackity whispers almost indiginantly. His fingers are too tense to string out any tunes, and he does not feel like singing right now. So instead of staying where he is at, he decides to pack up and go home. 

_That was weird though. Obama waving back like that._

As soon as Quackity is home, he texts the others, his closer friends. He instantly goes to the group chat, anxiety and excitement thrumming through his fingers as he types out his message. Thankfully, they are all online right now.

 **Quackity:** GUYS GUESS WHAT COME TO MY HOUSE

 **Wilbur:** what

 **Tommy:** drugs

 **Techno:** what

 **Quackity:** GUYS YOU WOn’t BEEVER iT jUST COMEEEE

 **Wilbur:** r u ok

 **Techno:** wat

Quackity huffs in annoyance, but then gets actual responses a minute of waiting later.

 **Wilbur:** im omw

 **Techno:** gimme ten

And another two minutes later, Tommy responds, too.

 **Tommy:** u better have chimichangas

Quackity stares at Tommy’s response for a moment, then figures he must be referring to drugs of some sort. Oh well, he does not have those tonight. He has a good amount of weed leftover, maybe they could pass a blunt or two around. But then that earlier anxiety snaps at him.

 _On second thought, fuck I need to get rid of that._

Those scary body-guards have him feeling the need to dive head-first into holy water. 

* * *

He answers the door later, and he is unexpectedly faced with all three of them. Somehow, they all managed to get there at the same time. “Get in,” Quackity ushers, closing the door behind them.

“Quackity, what the hell is up with you?” Wilbur asks as Tommy lingers; Techno ignores them and saunters into the house like he owns the place. 

Quackity looks between the two paying attention to him—that being Wilbur and Tommy—and discloses in a low voice, “guys, I met _Obama_ today.”

Immediately, Wilbur deflates in disbelief, as does Tommy, and both give Quackity a look that asks _on a scale of 1-10, how high are you._

“No--guys, I’m serious! Like--I’m going to burn my weed after this. I’m going to go _squeaky-clean_ . You should have _seen_ those body-guards, Wil,” Quackity tries to convince, and it seems to work, at least a little. 

“What the fuck. Where did you see him?” Wilbur asks, voice still skeptical, but now with leeway for a chance for belief. 

“I saw him at the office buildings. Like—…” Quackity is about to say he saw Obama from the spot on the hill, but Quackity still has not told anybody about that place. He has not told Wilbur or the other two about his outings there, or even that such a place exists. 

“I was watching from like this park that had like a little cliff that looks over the city,” Quackity explains, distantly registering Tommy walking off. “And it was the rich neighborhood with big houses and stuff. He pulled up in a fuckin _nice_ Caddilac and then three body-guards came out. And they opened his door and fucking _President Obama_ came out and the like--they lead him to the door and shit. And then--and then he fucking waved at me!” Quackity whispers his last sentence harshly, eyes wide and boring into Wilbur’s own, who is looking at him like he’s fucking gone insane. 

And Quackity giggles. Weak, and voicy, like he truly has lost his mind, all while staring at Wilbur, who is leaning on Quackity with both hands on Q’s shoulders. “Quackity, let’s go relax in your room, okay?” Wilbur placates, holding Quackity’s hand to guide him to his own room.

Though before they take two steps through the kitchen they have been standing in, Techno struts out of Quackity’s room, clearing his throat. “Don’t worry about Obama finding your stash, Quackity. We can just smoke all the evidence,” Techno says cooly, smirking as Tommy comes out from behind him while taking a big hit of Quackity’s bong.

“Guys what the fuck,” Quackity says as he walks up to them, letting go of the giggling Wilbur beside him. “Yeah, don’t worry big Q. We’ll save you from the President’s henchmen,” Tommy says through a fit of coughing, smoke hacking out of his face. Quackity swipes the bong out of Tommy’s hand and before Q can say something about how he could not flush it down the toilet because he was scared that the authorities might somehow trace it back to him through the sewer system, Wilbur swipes the bong out of his own grip.

And Wilbur uses his height to his advantage, holding it high above Quackity’s head teasingly, hand bent at the ceiling. “Quackity, calm down. Let’s just relax tonight, there is not going to _actually_ be henchmen kicking your door down,” Wilbur says, chuckling.

And Quackity stops trying to reach for the bong because Wilbur’s right. He sighs as he gives up his useless feud born from baseless paranoia. It’s not like he does not already have harder drugs still sifting out of his system from last week, so another bong of weed won’t hurt.

Wilbur notices Q giving up, and after taking his own hit, he offers it to him. Quackity accepts it with a small frustrated huff and takes his own hit, just a small one. “Come on _big Q_ , you’re too—” Tommy coughs, “you’re too _crafty_ anyways. 

Quackity rolls his eyes and squeezes his way through them into his room. No need for them to crowd in the hallway right outside the door. The others follow and Quackity plops onto the bed; Tommy does the same. Quackity takes another hit, a longer one this time, craving those relaxing elements.

Wilbur, too, sets himself on the bed, leaning against the wall, using Quackity’s pillows as cushioning. The three always act like they own the place and quite frankly, Quackity would not have it any other way. He is just thankful he got the sweet deal on this king-size mattress. He smiles fondly at the ceiling and passes the bong to Techno, who leans against the drywall in the space between Quackity’s dresser and the bed. 

It’s Technoblade’s usual spot. It is just big enough to fit Q’s tall friend with a bit of wiggle room, yet small enough to feel comforted by the space’s closure; Or at least, that is what Quackity guesses what draws Techno to that spot, considering Techno’s social anxiety. 

Even though Techno is a merciless walking intimidation—especially for those that know his past—he can be pretty normal once one gets to know him. Which Quackity—as well as Wilbur and Tommy—have privilege to. 

“So what _actually_ happened?” Tommy asks beside him, passing Quackity the bong to complete the passing-around circle. 

Quackity takes a moment before he explains, letting the smoke absorb into his lungs. “So I was in this park, and I was looking over the railing. Then I saw Obama in this Cadillac--and he just went into this house with like three _buff_ body guards around him. And then Obama paused and looked _straight_ at me,” Quackity retells, pausing a moment to catch his breath against the burn in his throat.

“And I got really scared because like--I got paranoid that somehow those body-guards might know I deal and do drugs and shit, you know. Like they might come after me or something,” Quackity rambles, chuckling at his own actions. The weed’s getting to him; he is slowly becoming more relaxed.

“What--did you think they were going to just _appear_ in front of you and arrest you or something?” Techno says with a teasing tone.

“Well no--I thought one of them might climb the cliff or something—”

Quackity is cut off by Wilbur’s outburst of laughter, followed by Tommy’s hacking laughter and a muffled choke on smoke from Techno. “You thought they were just going to crawl up the mountain or something—” Wilbur parrots through his laughter.

Quackity giggles, not knowing how to respond, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Techno jokes as well, before dissolving in a fit of breathy laughter. “One of them just grabs plungers—” 

“Or suction cups—” Tommy says, cut off by the sharp inhale of laughter from Wilbur, as well as his own cackling.

Quackity laughs too, he can’t help it. Weed always makes him _extra_ giggly, and he can’t stop. He cuddles into Tommy’s side, and Tommy heedlessly pets him as they all start laughing and joking, cutting themselves off with their own laughter before they can even finish their sentences.

Wilbur eggs the hilarity again, “You just look down--and--and you see this buff body-guard using suction cups to scale the dirt cliff—” 

“And you just hear the fast suction cup noises as you try to run away,” Techno chuckles as he takes the last hit. He flops onto the bed afterwards after flicking the dead bud into the little metal trash can in the corner.

Quackity shift at the added dip on the bed. His hazy head leaves him feeling floaty and dissociative. He ignores the hunger he feels in favor of delving into the comforting cuddle pile. Him and Tommy are the two out of the group that get munchies while high, but Tommy does not make any move to leave, either. 

Quackity props himself up and Tommy does the same. Now that they are all on the bed, they start getting comfortable for the night. 

Wilbur is already cuddling up next to Techno. It’s a rare sight; the only time Techno let’s such physical contact happen is when he is high like this. And it is the only times Techno actually reciprocates, just as he is doing now. He curls an arm around Wilbur’s head as Wil cuddles into Techno’s chest, using Techno’s shoulder as a pillow. 

Quackity settles on Techno’s other side with Tommy beside him, both cuddling into each other. They have to lift his head up when Techno grabs his long pink hair and shifts it away so that it is not being pulled on unintentionally.

Soft humming starts filling the room, and Quackity turns his head to see Wilbur, eyes spacey and singing little tunes. Quackity giggles and cuddles back into Tommy’s chest, and when a familiar tune comes up from one of Wilbur’s own songs, Quackity joins in, even if their harmony is choppy and inconsistent. Eventually they all fall asleep together.


	2. I Heard You Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quackity and Obama meet for the first time face-to-face, and they somehow manage a good bonding moment.
> 
> No warnings for this one!

It has been a good week now. The night spent via an impromptu sleepover with Wilbur, Tommy, and Techno got him pretty loosened up. The next morning, Quackity got a clear head. He did not feel any distant tendrils of anxiety those following days, and he does not now.

Perhaps some of that paranoia that day a week ago originated from the manifestation of the buildup of guilt and awareness of his crimes he has been pushing into the back of his mind for a good while now. Sometimes it makes him paranoid, particularly of the authorities. 

Quackity has formerly been in a drug cartel, partially due to some extended family’s doing in his teen years. He has been selling drugs here and there since—which could easily get him a life sentence—to trusted friends, mainly Wilbur and the others. So yeah, seeing the president—the holder of absolute authoritative power, technically—freaked Quackity out a bit; made him think heavily on his current and past crimes.

But with the clear head and sortation of thoughts throughout the rest of the week, Quackity reminds himself that he is already a lost cause in the eyes of the law. They would not give him a second chance, not if they knew the extent of how deep his crime life is. 

And there is no use in trying to protect Wilbur, Techno, and Tommy either. The majority of Quackity’s friends have also committed heinous crimes that would keep them in prison for their entire lives, it is not like they are innocent. That sleepover reminded Quackity that technically, they are all in the same boat. 

In truth, the only type the authorities could hook Quackity on are the drugs—which is something Quackity _could_ quit—but certain tests, especially those with the hair follicles, would force him to go clean for at least three months. And lord knows he is not quitting anytime soon. He would rather accept a possible incarceration than quit his addictions.

At least as a 21 year old, he is legally able to drink alcohol; A small comfort he likes to justify his one unhealthy habit with. Not that he drinks very often; It makes him lose his balance too much. He will usually only drink it when he is with friends.

Today, like the majority of days within the week, Quackity is sober. He’s not a constant drug user. In fact, from the rock-bottom addicts he has met and known in his lifetime, Quackity could say he is not that avid of a user. Perhaps he would place himself on the lighter side; maybe beside the casual college student that does relatively well in classes but parties and uses on the weekends. 

Except the days Quackity uses, smokes, or drinks are usually on Thursdays or Saturdays, when his college classes do not weigh on him with the responsibility to come to class or pile on online assignments. 

Today is a Saturday, and it is the evening. It is a week after the sleepover, a week of going to classes and being a relatively good college student. He’s not on anything, no nefarious activities for today. Instead, he has reserved his relaxation to be had through his usual spot on top of the hill, guitar case strapped to his back and ready to get to his spot and sing. 

He has not visited his spot since last week of course; both because he has not had time and because he has been avoiding it a little from what he experienced last time. But today—feeling the soft breeze with a temperature just cool enough to bask in, and clouds just thick enough to block out an overbearing sun—he craves the solace his spot offers. He itches to sing, and sing he does.

It’s peaceful, relaxing. He carries out all types of tunes, belts out a few tunes of Wilbur’s music, but otherwise sings his own lyrics. He sings softly, worryless and content to stay in his spot and not look over the guardrail to cure any fear or curiousity. He stays there for a good while before he hears a set of footsteps behind him, approaching. 

He turns—alarmed that somebody would intentionally come to this spot which is quite out of the way from the main walkway—and for a moment he worries if somebody came to investigate. If somebody simply heard him singing, but then he sees who it is.

Shock drops his jaw as he stares at Obama and all his glory, every part of his appearance pristine and untarnished. The man is staring right at Quackity, too, but he is paused, like he is surprised to find somebody here. 

“Oh, I apologize if I startled you. I just-I just heard your voice and a lovely tune being played--are you the man I waved to yesterday?” Obama asks, eyebrow raised curiously. He has a professional air in his voice, as if ingrained into his words and his every move, but he gestures and talks as if he is talking to a fellow distinguished gentleman and not a crime-riddled farce of a college student. 

Quackity is still surprised, and it takes a moment before he says a sentence that manages at least half the dignity he intends it to have, “Oh--uhh… Th-thank you. I uhh… I play a lot, here. This spot is really relaxing.”

Obama gives a small humorous huff. Quackity panics when he thinks a silence will take over, and he ends up blurting out, “Ahh, I actually know Sweet Home Chicago, too.” He remembers Obama singing that song a couple of years ago on television, and by the reaction, he says the right thing.

Obama perks curiously, and Quackity recognizes how Obama seems to carry a sense of nostalgia in a smile, one less polite and a little more informal than his first one. “Really? I have not heard that song in a long time.”

Quackity’s brain is going a mile a minute now that the initial shock is on the backburner. Why is Obama here? _Why is the president without bodyguards? Why did Obama encroach on a stranger’s territory? Isn’t the president supposed to be_ extremely _cautious?_

“You… wanna--you want to hear it?” Quackity asks, changing his voice to try and match at least a smidge of the professional demeanor that the president carries. It probably does not work, but Quackity would not know. It is not like he has ever been anywhere more distinguished than college, and even that place is full of garbage people that degrade his proper way of speech and manners after every conversation.

At that, Obama seems to consider his choices. He glances at the view past the railing edging the cliff, then back to Quackity with his decision and responds, “Sure. I have not heard that song in a long while.” 

Quackity is flabbergasted, but he manages a cool, “Okay, okay, nice.” He watches from the corner of his eye—pretending to busy himself with clearing his throat and uselessly fiddling with his guitar—as Obama glances around for a place to sit so that he is not standing awkwardly. For a moment, it makes the ruler of the country seem more human.

Quackity almost chuckled aloud when he sees the cogs turn in Obama’s head as he seems to decide _fuck it_ and sit himself on the grass just a couple feet away from where Quackity sits. 

Quackity is secretly grateful for the slight relief in the awkward atmosphere. He can’t imagine how traumatized he would be if he had to remember this moment as awkwardly forcing the president of the United States to _stand_ through a less-than stellar guitar solo of an old song.

It is by sheer fucking luck that Quackity knows how to play this song, by the way. He only came across it because Obama sang some of it at some type of White House convention and got the inspiration to learn the song on his guitar. But that was a couple of years ago, so he has to test the tune a little try to try and stimulate those old memory muscles.

He manages, though. Maybe it is because of that phenomenon that makes people perform better if they are being watched, the one he learned from the one page of his psychology textbook that he actually read and found interesting enough to remember. He does better than he expects, and feels the tension drain out of him a little as the tune carries along with little to no error. 

It surprises him when he hears a soft hum of Obama singing along, and the two’s eyes meet with smiles. Quackity grins, beckoning Obama to continue. “Yeah, come on, sing it with me,” Quackity says, nodding his head to the beat as he starts up the next chorus. 

But Obama declines, waving him off. But Quackity is socially adept enough to recognize that peak of feigned disinterest, that shyness that lifts the cheeks and causes the couple of crinkles at the eyes with a barely noticeable upturn of the lips. Quackity gets a little bolder, and he presses. “Come on, sing it with me.”

And he sings that next chorus confidently. Even when Obama shakes his head to decline the hyped offer. But a few moments later, Quackity’s emboldment pays off. Obama joins in on the third line, and they end the verse together loudly. Quackity starts adding extra spice to the song, putting in more swing in the tune, more fingerwork in the guitar strings. 

“Yeah!” Quackity says, hyped as he sees Obama nodding along and snapping his fingers to the beat. They sing the next verse even louder, more confident. And they sing it together. “Back to that sweet old place, sweet home~ Chicago.” 

And Quackity ends the song with a little strumming tune and stares at Obama, grinning ear-to-ear. Quackity does not feel awkward, or out of place. It is so weird; one minute he is struggling to form a sentence good enough to be voiced within two miles of the leader of America, and what must be less then only ten minutes later, Quackity is smiling at Obama, shocked that they managed such a harmony between the gap that their different lives have.

“That was fucking awesome!” Quackity exclaims with a hyped grin, then reels that serotonin in when he realizes his language. He is about to apologize when Obama chuckles. 

“Yeah, that was fun. You are a good singer,” Obama says, and the smile he returns is much more informal than the one he approached from the bushes with. Quackity calls that a win, and added with the compliment from the highest authority, he is on cloud nine.

“Hey, thanks! I forget that you also sing really good, you have a great voice,” Quackity responds, setting his guitar on the grass on the side and out of their way. 

“Thank you,” Obama replies, and Quackity notices the man’s habit of glancing down that he has been consistently doing when taking praise or a dose of positive attention. “Are you from around here?” Obama asks, in a way that pursues a conversation.

“Oh, uh,” Quackity says but hesitates to answer fully. He is a criminal after all, even if the only thing that the law _actually_ has caught him on is a speeding ticket. _Fuck it_. “Yeah, I live in the neighborhood. I come here a lot because of how peaceful it is. I’ve never had anybody notice this spot before,” Quackity answers, chuckling a bit nervously.

“I see. Yes, that is why I came here. To relax,” Obama answers, and his eyes seem to carry a distant look for a moment, as if he delved into a tangle of thoughts. 

“Well, this is the place to do it, definitely. You know that place in HollyWood movies, where there is that ledge that overlooks the city?” Quackity asks, deciding to keep up this conversation. He is enjoying this, as tense as it had been making him at the start.

“Ah, the HollyWood Bowl Overlook?” 

“No--uh--actually yeah, that’s probably it. This place is a lot like it--like it overlooks the city and you can just see everything.”

Quackity stands, silently ushering Obama to follow as he walks over and leans against the railing. “See, this is where I,” Quackity chuckles to himself, “this is where I waved at you yesterday.”

Obama settles a hand on the railing as he joins Quackity in taking in the view, glancing down at the house before he backs away. “Ah, I probably should not be seen up here,” Obama says, chuckling dryly as he walks back to the spot on the grass. 

Quackity almost wonders why the man does not leave, but rationalizes that Obama is enjoying this conversation as much as Quackity is. He goes back over to join him on the grass. “Why not? Avoiding somebody?” he asks with a light tone, but holding sincerity. 

Obama seems to hesitate for a moment, meeting Quackity’s waiting gaze for a second before looking back at the ground, and then at the view. After a moment in which Quackity makes the silence expectant while expressing the body language of _I’m here to listen, not to judge_ , Obama finally says, “Yes, well… Some discrepancies are happening at the current office home I am staying in. I needed a breather, so I took a walk through the park and… heard you.”

Quackity hums, lets the silence drag for a few seconds to see if Obama wants to share more, but when he does not, Quackity replies, “That sounds rough, buddy.” Quackity could not explain why he says it with such casualty, but the atmosphere seems to call for it. Besides, Quackity is not one for conversations stiff with formality and cautious skirting of correct language for the context. 

His reply of sympathy seems to do good though, because Obama smiles, amused. Quackity wants to ask why kind of problems Obama has, or some other stimulating question to keep the conversation going, but he has to choose his words carefully. 

The questions that instantly come up would dig near personal territory, which is not ideal when talking to the President of the United States where secrecy for the sake of safety is heavily prioritized; at least, Quackity would imagine. 

And even though they are having a little bonding moment, Quackity would say, at the start, they were in two different worlds, and only now are they on the same book, but not on the same page. So he is still cautious, even if he expresses his demeanor to be casual and confident. 

So Quackity settles to ask with a grin, “What are you going to do about that, Mr. President?” 

Obama seems to give him a confused look laced with miff. Quackity queels the thought that he just messed up and continues, “You did not become the President of the United States at 24 by sitting around doing nothing. You did not become the leader of this country by letting people hold you back, you know.”

Obama’s hums thoughtfully, and after a moment, gives him a look that says, _I’m impressed_. Quackity smiles; he knows he does not come off or appear as if he can hold his own in a deep conversation. He knows he can come off as a shallow washout with the way he always wears a beanie and practical casual clothing.

There is a reason he dresses like this, and Obama seems to partially realize that in the scrutinizing lookover he gives Quackity now. “Thank you. I needed that,” Obama replies, then moves to stand as he continues, “And you are right. I suppose I have been in a bit of a funk lately, but you are right.” 

Quackity stands as well and Obama gives him a smile; the genuine type that crinkles the eyes and is lopsided. The type that expresses gratitude without forcing. And Quackity heedlessly returns that smile.

“I can take these complications on. Thank you-... Oh, I just realized I never got your name,” Obama says, a bit sheepishly. 

For a moment, Quackity considers giving a fake name. The side that says _authorities are a danger, and Obama is their leader_. But the emotions he is feeling right now win out. Something about giving a fake name—as helpful as it might be—rubs this moment the wrong way. It would feel… disingenuous. So Quackity does what he always does. He goes by his gut, by his spontaneity. 

Quackity grins, teeth and all, and replies, “I’m Quackity.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm listening to Obama's 'A Promised Land' for this haha.


	3. Spontaneity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quackity really does not think he and Obama will meet again, but here they are.

Quackity went home that night in a great mood. Anxiety tried nipping at the edges of his mind, especially when he was alone and in bed and ready to sleep for the night, but he pushed it away. He felt _great_ . That what must have been only 30 minute time spent with the _president_ gave him a bigger jolt to his view of the world than college ever has. 

To think, the youngest president in United States history at only age 24, who worked to the bone his entire life growing up, is just a normal man. Just a normal man with problems that he copes with just like everyone else. Sure, there were some obvious differences given from just his aura and demeanor alone, but it really gave Quackity a new view of just how grandiose of an image he gave the man.

He bragged about it to Tommy and Bad in the morning about it through text. He holds off on doing the same to Techno since he figures he will just talk to him in the class they have today. Last night he had been much too tired and socially exhausted to talk to anyone about it. 

That morning, he drops into Wilbur’s house uninvited with only a single text that did not even get read and flopped onto Wilbur’s bed where he is peacefully sleeping. He has a key to both Wilbur’s and Tommy’s house for easy drug exchanging and buying.

Even though Quackity startles and wakes Wilbur from his slumber that usually lasts till the evening, the tired man begrudgingly begins listening to Quackity ramble about what happened and eventually wakes up enough to express interest.

“Quackity what if he finds out about you? Then we’re _all_ going to prison,” Wilbur says groggily, eyes peering at Quackity laying beside him from his pillow. Wilbur is still under the covers, sleep still hazy in his head and eyes. Quackity has gotten comfortable beside him, laying on top of the covers with his hands connected on his chest as if this is some sort of forced therapy session.

“Well,” Quackity says, tone laced with distaste, “I don’t think he will find out. I mean, it’s not like we have ever been _caught_ , so a background check would come up negative. Besides the time I got a speeding ticket, of course.”

Wilbur hums at that, considering. Quackity notices how Wilbur’s eyelids struggle to stay open, and he pats Wilbur’s head before he has the chance to swat Quackity away. “Go back to sleep, I’m sorry for bothering you,” Quackity says with a half-smirk half-serious expression.

Wilbur gives him a look that, with how tired he is, comes off as a glare, but it's just a neutral. Quackity would know, he has woken Wilbur enough times to decipher this particular expression. Wilbur nods after a moment and closes his eyes, turning to his side facing away from Quackity and pulling the covers over his shoulder.

With a quick check of his phone that lay on Wilbur’s dresser where he had plugged it in when he first came in an hour ago, Quackity figures he should get ready for class. With one last pat to Wilbur’s head—chuckling at the grumble Wilbur returns—Quackity heads out to his car.

Techno is sharing today’s class—Composition I—and Quackity uses the opportunity to essentially ignore the lecture and try to communicate any way he can to Techno. First through text messages—even though Techno sits right next to him on the very top row—then through whispers when Techno ignores the texts and silences his phone, and then through notes when Techno tells him to shut up and focus on the lecture. 

By the time the class ends Quackity has thoroughly annoyed Techno, following him and rambling, amusing himself to Techno’s expense. When Techno thinks he can ignore Quackity and just get into his car and drive off, Quackity hops into the passenger’s seat and Techno loses it, finally protesting.

“Quackity, what the heck? Stop bothering me and get out of my car!” Techno yells in lower-case, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and shooing Q off with the other. Techno makes no move to start the car, waiting until Quackity leaves.

Q instantly fakes a sad pout, pretending to be hurt by Techno’s words. “I-... I’m bothering you?”

“Oh my god, get out Quackity,” Techno instantly replies mercilessly. He doesn't care about Quackity’s farce, nor does he care to listen to whatever Quackity is trying to say. “And why did you wake Wilbur!” 

Quackity grins teasingly and decides to say what he has been trying to tell Techno from the beginning. “I met Obama again, yesterday.”

Techno gives him his usual deadpan expression, and Quackity can see the irritation in the very _slight_ unamused raise of an eyebrow. “Quackity, We’re not talking in my car.”

Quackity waits two seconds, to test if Techno will give in. When he doesn’t, Quackity pushes his luck. “Oh come on! Just listen to me for a _little_ bit,” Quackity pouts again.

Another two seconds pass with Techno just staring at Quackity, trying to intimidate him out of his car, but then Techno sighs, giving up. “Fine. You can talk to me while I go grab coffee.”

And just as Quackity is about to celebrate, Techno adds on, “And you’re buying.”

“Fine, I can do that,” Quackity huffs, acting annoyed, then starts rambling as Techno pulls out of the parking lot. 

Techno is not known to be the best listener, particularly with his ADHD and tendency to ignore others, but the occasional hum during the five minute drive to Lovely’s Coffee let’s Quackity know he is listening. This amount of attention from Techno might seem little, but it is a good amount considering Techno’s personality, so Quackity counts it a win.

Once at the coffee shop, they wait in line at the drive-through for a couple of minutes before Techno is able to pull up to the speaker, pausing Quackity’s story just before the part in which he introduces Obama into the retelling. 

The familiar voice of Tubbo comes through the speaker, unassuming and formal, laced with his British accent. “Welcome to Lovely’s Coffee, what can I get for you today?” 

Just as Technoblade is about to say something, Quackity instantly cuts him off with an overexcited shout, even leaning over and crowding into Techno’s space needlessly, much to the guy’s irritation. “I want to speak to the manager!” he exclaims in a fake gruff voice.

He can hear a yelp through the speakers before Tubbo exclaims back, not scoldingingly, “Oh my gosh, Quackity!” Tubbo huffs, unphased; he is very much used to Quackity’s antics.

Quackity giggles as Techno pushes him with a hand on forehead back into his seat. “I want a Monster and whatever Technoblade usually gets,” Quackity continues.

“Oh, Technoblade’s with you? Hi Techno!” Tubbo says, greeting with his cheery tone.

“Hello Tubbo,” Techno replies, voice his usual monotone. 

Techno and Tubbo are not exactly close; Techno only knows Tubbo through Tommy, as well as the fact that Techno usually gets his coffee from here, where Tubbo works the afternoon shift. Quackity knows Tubbo for the same reasons. 

“Alright you two. The white Monster, Quackity?” Tubbo asks, to make sure. 

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks Tubbo,” Quackity replies.

Lovely’s Coffee did not carry Monster energy drinks in stock, not until Quackity became a freshman at the college and complained _every single time_ to Tubbo about a lack of energy drinks while ordering regular coffee. 

Not seriously of course. Tubbo was the only one he jokingly pleaded for energy drinks with since they became acquaintances pretty quickly, especially when he learned that Tubbo is a long-time friend of Tommy, who Quackity has known since a bit before college.

And because of Quackity’s efforts for those first three weeks going to Lovely’s Coffee, Tubbo managed to convince the manager to sell Monsters. Which turned out to be a good investment for their little business, considering how many college students are addicted to the particular taste of energy drinks over coffee.

Techno pulls up to the window where Quackity pays, as promised, and Tubbo waves them off to the next window with a quip about Quackity not needing an energy drink and a smile. By contrast, Techno and Quackity don’t say anything to the next guy, a rather silent employee they had not seen before.

Quackity holds both of their drinks until Techno can drive away. Q hands Techno his dark coffee a moment later when Techno holds out a hand for it. “And as I was saying-” Quackity opens his can of energy with a sizzle, sipping the precariously sloshing liquid before it can spill, “Obama literally _came out of the bushes_ as I was there just--just playing my fucking guitar.”

And Techno laughs at that, disbelievingly. Techno does not often laugh at other’s jokes, so Quackity’s returned indignant look is only half-hearted. “I’m serious! Dude, he heard me _singing._ ” 

Techno shakes his head, smiling. “Are you serious? What, are you in a Disney movie or something?”

“I’m serious! We even,” he chuckles to himself, realizing how much his next words coincide with Techno’s joke. 

“What, did you kiss?”

“No! We even sang Sweet Home Chicago together. Not even joking.”

And Techno laughs again, then looks Quackity in the eye very skeptically. “Quackity, you don’t expect me to believe that,” he says, not as a question.

“Oh my gosh, I’m serious,” Quackity tries, shaking his head. “Wilbur believed me.”

“Yeah, because he was half-asleep and probably high. You can _brainwash_ him when it is this early in the morning.”

“Early--it was only 11AM when I got there!” Quackity exaggerates with a loud slurp of his energy drink. Then he remembers that both Wilbur _and_ Techno tend to sleep until three PM or later. The two are like brothers in a lot of ways, honestly.

“Yeah, that’s really early,” Techno says, then finishes with a, “For us,” when Quackity gives him an unimpressed look. 

“You know, you two really _are_ like brothers,” Quackity says, then recognizes that he is digressing from the topic he originally started. “Wait, let me talk about Obama!”

Techno groans, but Q can tell it’s half-hearted. “Fine, let me park.” 

“Oh, oh! Let me put on music then,” Quackity says as he grabs his phone, messing with the digital touch screen between them on the dash to connect his bluetooth. He can tell Techno is about to protest, but then he just shrugs. His eyes flit from to and fro from focusing on the road and the computer to see what song Quackity picks, though.

Quackity knows that warning look in Techno’s eyes that says _don’t play shitty rap music_ , so he settles for a playlist of Ed Sheeran’s hits, all instrumental. Techno agrees with the choice, as his lack of visual protest usually implies.

They are parked a couple of minutes later back at the college in the front, facing the road and distantly taking in the occasional traffic passing by. It is a place that does not let eyes linger on them, a place where there is no space to walk in, no sidewalk. 

Quackity continues his story and Techno listens. Eventually both of them lean back in their seats, inclining them to relax as they sip and occupy their hands with their drinks.

Techno joins in the conversation every now and then, usually to sarcastically make light of the ludacricy of Quackity’s story. But Techno starts believing it, indicated by the occasional genuine impressed expression and actual question. 

“Dude, what if you and Obama become friends,” Techno jokes, huffing a laugh at just the implication. Quackity giggles too, because that would be ridiculous. Meeting and having a conversation with the president like that was once-in-a-fucking-lifetime chance. 

Right?

* * *

Turns out it’s not once-in-a-fucking-lifetime chance. Quackity could not imagine how statistically small the number would be, just how lucky he would look in the eyes of those that crunch the numbers. Something he could maybe imagine Technoblade doing. But it happens again.

It is only a couple of days after that conversation with Techno in his Camaro, only on his second visit over the past 8 days to his spot on the hill, that he meets Obama _again_. Just when he had pretty much gotten over talking about the last time. 

This time though, Quackity is the only one that comes out of the bushes. He is the one pausing as he stares at Obama in shock, who is sitting in the same spot he sat in the last time.

“Ob-Mister President?” Quackity asks, catching himself before he gets too casual. He was not at all expecting to see the man here, obviously. Obama is looking at him in turn with surprise, once again without bodyguards. Instead, he is slumping over a thick book, open to the middle with a finger still on one of the lines on the right page.

“Oh, hello Quackity. I came here to take my break,” Obama says in explanation. He does not seem intimidated by Quackity’s presence, nor even disturbed. Instead, he continues almost casually, “Are you here to sing?”

Quackity nods after a moment, deciding to accept the situation. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Wilbur’s words echo _‘Quackity what if he finds out about you? Then we’re all going to prison.’_ Q tries to push those words back when he sees the innocent, unassuming look in Obama’s eyes. 

Quackity does not understand it, and the thought that he managed to gain the President’s trust knowing that he himself would be considered a vicious criminal in light of all his past deeds makes him want to curl away in guilt. But again, he pushes that away and decides to soak in the present moment.

He sits next to Obama in his own spot where the grass is scantily scuffed from all the times he has worn it away with his ass. He answers, “Yeah, I’ll just play instrumentally, though. Looks like you’re trying to read.” 

Quackity’s eyes catch on the smile that brightens on Obama; it looks almost fond, and it makes Quackity blush in turn, surprised. “You don’t have to, but I appreciate the consideration,” Obama says, just a bit shyly as his eyes digress back to the words in his book.

Quackity smiles as he starts opening his guitar case. He starts playing softly, strumming out an instrumental version to a song he has been working loosely on. He relaxes as minutes pass, and the silence between the two becomes comfortable. 

It is a mix of the sounds of a soft breeze sifting through the greenery and the chirping of birds in the trees; and of course, quackity’s tunes on his guitar. The rustling of the pages reminds him of the steady presence of the President only a few feet beside him.

Obama reads with a finger following the words, and Quackity almost chuckles when he notices how fast Obama is. He is turning another page at least twice a minute. It brings back a memory of a time when Quackity was with Bad; they were chilling together and Bad mentioned—pretty out of the blue—that reading with a finger is a great way to increase reading speed. 

It is while he is remembering that when Obama perks up beside him, exclaiming an, “Oh!” like he remembered something, startling Quackity to clasp his fingers over the string.

“I just remembered,” Obama says, turning to Quackity, confirming Quackity’s little notion. Q raises his eyebrows, asking voicelessly, _what is it?_

Obama moves to get up, and Quackity pushes down the disappointment he feels as he does the same. “I need to finish up a certain document before one of the officials comes over…” Obama says, trailing off to himself as he distastefully glances at his watch like the politician he is.

But then he looks to Quackity with that same tinge of disappointment Quackity is trying to hold back in his own expression. Quackity smiles sympathetically, but then he gets an idea. _If Obama is disheartened to go, then…_ “Hey Obama,” Quackity says, intentionally being informal to test the waters.

The president does not react negatively in any way, instead perks his eyebrows at the question, but with a pleasant smile. It gives Quackity the courage to ask his next question. “Is there some way I can contact you? I… I like hanging out with you here,” he says confidently, but with a tone that conveys _if no, then that’s okay, too. I’ll respect your decision, whatever it is._

Obama smiles, glancing down shyly, and Quackity knows asking that risky question is worth it. “Yes, I can do that. I… I enjoy your company too, Quackity,” Obama says, holding eye contact for a moment with upturned lips. “Here…”

Obama holds his closed book under his arm and pulls out his phone, and Quackity instantly does the same. A moment later, Obama is literally giving out his number—at least, _a_ number, probably not his personal one—to Quackity, and Q has to hide how shocked he is. 

“You got my phone number?” Obama asks after.

“Yeah, here, I’m going to text you,” Quackity responds, typing deftly at his little touchscreen.

Obama huffs a breath at the message that pops up, accompanied by a soft ping alert. Quackity smiles, amused. He had sent, ‘Hello, Mr. President.’

Quackity waves him off after, and Obama waves back as he begins a brisk stride down the hill. Quackity watches him go for a moment, then turns back around and stares at his guitar still sitting on the grass. He sits down and hugs the instrument to his chest, resting his head on it as he digests the situation. 

“What the fuck,” he mumbles to himself, then pulls out his phone and staring at the message. After a moment of just looking at it, he backs up into his chats and decides to text the group chat with Wilbur, Tommy, and Techno. But his energy is pretty drained after that interaction with the President, so he does not yell in the chat like usually does.

He wonders if that will happen again. Well, now that he has Obama’s literal phone number, he supposes it would. _Maybe he will find out who I am with my number and reject me for the speeding ticket I got_ , Quackity thinks to himself half-sarcastically.

* * *

And it does happen again. But this time there is no surprise from either of them. Neither enter from the bushes to pause and stare at the other awkwardly; instead they text and decide to both meet at the bottom of the hill in the evening and walk up it together, towards Quackity’s spot. Their spot.

Quackity smiles, and for a comical moment, his brain tells him to hold Obama’s hand. Not really from any romantic feeling, per say. Rather, the hilarity of the two stark contrasts actually forming a peaceful friendship has the thought entering his head jokingly. Just a comical relief, perhaps.

Perhaps.

Obama talks about his day during their walk up the hill, and they exchange conversation back and forth once they are sitting in their spots. Neither can get into their personal lives, though, obviously. Quackity for the reason that his pastimes are often spent doing nefarious activities, and Obama for the reason that his work is classified and, overall, not understandable to Quackity. 

So once that conversation ends a few minutes later, Quackity decides to pull out his guitar, and the two start singing together. They sing Sweet Home Chicago, and afterwards, when Quackity can’t think of another song that he could play that Obama would know, talk about music that they like and listen to. 

“Do you… Have you heard of Wilbur Soot?” Quackity asks. He _really_ doubts, but maybe…

“Ah, isn’t he the one that made that song… ‘Your New Boyfriend,’ I believe?” Obama asks, a smile brightening on his face at recognizing the song.

Quackity’s jaw drops in surprise, and he grins. “ _What?_ You know Wilbur’s music? That’s _awesome_ ,” he says, pumping his fists excitedly.

“Yeah, perks of being in the younger generation, I suppose,” Obama says, smiling sheepishly. And Quackity finds that makes more sense. If Obama was older like the majority of the presidents before him, Quackity supposes Obama would not be listening to the new generation’s music.

“Do you know the song? The lyrics?” Quackity asks, fingers already positioning themselves on the strings. Much to his delight, Obama nods enthusiastically. Quackity starts playing it immediately, grinning ear-to-ear when Obama starts snapping his fingers and nodding his head to where the beat would be.

They sing together from the first line, loudly and without a care. It is late in the evening and there is not a soul out in the park, and there is no noisy traffic below or rustling of wind to disturb them. 

“He’s in your bed, I’m in your twitch chat,” Quackity and Obama say at the same time, looking at each other and gesturing to the beat with child-like excitement. Quackity roughly strings out the seconds of instrumental next before the repeat the next line, pointing at each other and winking.

“I’ve got the key, and he’s just a doormat!”

“And even though he’s got “‘social skills,’” Obama sings with emphasized jazz hands, “That doesn’t mean I can’t pay the bills…”

The next lines they take turns. They do the same with the next chorus, and when they get to the part where the girl’s voice comes in, Obama ends up singing the part while Quackity sings Wilbur’s part. 

As soon as the song ends, Quackity sets down his guitar before whooping in the air and expressing his excitement, exclaiming, “Holy crap, that was _great!_ I can’t believe you know all the lyrics like that, that was fucking awesome!” 

He does not hold his tongue of language, the atmosphere feels too casual to hold back. Quackity chose right when he sees the heedless grin Obama gives back, teeth and all. 

Quackity could not imagine a better moment. No barriers, even when their lives are two different worlds; no social discomfort or sense of looming threatening authoritative power, even though Obama is the president of the United States. Just them, just their moment. 

Quackity feels happy; happier than he has in a long while. He feels the high he used to feel from company alone, back in middle school when things were easier. Not the euphoria extracted from the aid of drugs, needles, or weed. 

It’s bittersweet almost, tinged with nostalgia and a remembrance of times he used to laugh with Tommy without the need for anything besides each other.

Before a silence can take over the laughter that teeters off, Quackity exclaims in his usual giggly voice when he is in a mood like this, “Dude, _Obama_ , we should go to karaoke some time, I have friends that can _really_ sing.”

Obama grins wider and _giggles_ back. Quackity is shocked for a moment; he has _never_ heard the President giggle. “Well, depends on what friends, but yes, I would be down,” he replies, and Quackity can see the trust in his eyes, the trust Obama is giving Q. 

Quackity’s grin turns to a smile, fond and euphoric. The guilt he would usually feel from that trust is minimal, overshadowed by the current high he is on. “Yeah. I’ll have to make sure with them first, but yeah,” Quackity replies, voice much softer.

The atmosphere went from a hyped excited one to what it is now. Quackity would call it a bonding moment—as weird as that may sound for how different the two people are—but it feels… more than that. Quackity can’t pin-point the emotion, it almost feels… familiar.

 _Oh._ _Fuck_.

_I’m catching feelings. For the fucking President._

Immediately, Quackity backpedals the sweet edge in his smile and eyes, tone shifting away from the atmosphere he has unintentionally created. “Okay, I’ll text you sometime,” he says cooly, expression turning to one of a buddy-buddy smile. 

For a split second, he sees Obama jolt himself out of the atmosphere as well, blinking and clearing his throat as if _Barrack Obama_ had felt the same thing Quackity had just felt. 

Quackity honestly does not know how to feel about that one. _Pride_ , obviously, but also the tantalizing edge of fear that _maybe I’m manipulating Obama in some way, or something. Because this is ridiculous._

They sing broken lyrics, laughing and giggling for the next ten minutes, but Quackity maintains that platonic atmosphere. For now. He can’t digest these sudden feelings, it’s simply too soon. 

He most _definitely_ isn’t going to process Obama possibly returning such feelings either. Not until Quackity has some alcohol, a hangover, and then a clear head to talk with the others. 

For some reason though, the thought of telling the others does not appeal to him. This moment feels… _special_ , in a way. Like he does not want to share this. It feels too personal, too between them. 

In the back of his head, Quackity registers that to be the same type of behavior he takes on when he has a crush on someone; he distantly recognizes this desire to keep this moment between him and Obama as a sign of love, but he pushes that thought back. Right now, he just focuses on pretending that little revelation did not happen.

He does end up walking Obama down the park path until it splits at the crossroad, and if they were close enough for their hands to occasionally brush without either pulling away, then that stays between them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention, I'm updating at least once a week <3


	4. The Invite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur calls Quackity and Techno, as well as Tommy, to a lunch meeting to discuss an invitation to a fundraiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post haha.

It’s been a couple of days since Quackity has last seen Obama, and it is on a Thursday morning that he gets a text back, responding to his original message. It is while he is getting ready for the day, just as he is packing his laptop into his bag for his Composition I class.

 **Barr:** Hello, Quackity.

It’s formal, as expected. Quackity smiles as he types out a reply.

 **Quackity:** ;)

He figures it is good enough. He muses what Obama might reply with or if it was just a quick hello while tossing his phone on the bed to wait for a message as he gathers his cords and mouse into a side zipper pocket. He never likes using the touch-pad or the touch screen the laptop has to offer.

A moment later his phone whistles a reply, and he checks it to see Obama has sent a simple “:)” back. It makes Quackity smile again, makes him feel like whatever is going on between them is getting just a little comfortable. He pockets his phone and double-checks his laptop bag, making sure he has everything he needs. 

His phone pings again while he is grabbing his keys off his nightstand, and Quackity checks it curiously, not expecting another text. And that makes sense, because it’s not Obama, it’s Wilbur. 

**Wilbur:** Hey wanna meet for coffee

Quackity perks at that, pausing at his bedroom door to text back.

 **Quackity:** Yes at lunch?

Quackity waits, eying the three dots that mean Wilbur is typing.

 **Wilbur:** yes meet you at lovelies

Quackity gives the thumbs up emoji before pocketing his phone and heading out the door. He would continue the little conversation, maybe ask if Tommy was coming too, or if Wilbur wanted to talk to Quackity alone, but he might just be late to class if he did that.

Thursdays with Composition I are the _one_ day of the week that Quackity has class with Technoblade, so he always digs relentlessly at the chance to talk and socialize with him. 

Techno is usually a stone wall, giving either no reaction or just enough attention to keep Q tethered and wanting more; other times, Quackity manages a good conversation, or at least enough to amuse himself to Techno’s annoyance, just as he had last week. 

Which prompts Quackity to text Wilbur during class under the table while in class, away from the professors eyes. He asks Wilbur if Technoblade can come too. He receives a text a few minutes later, delayed no doubt because Wilbur is trying to pay attention to his psychology course that he is in right now, answering with a ‘yes.’

Quackity and Technoblade walk out of the class an hour later, Techno wearing a frown. Quackity likes to attribute the sour expression to his ability to be annoying. They head out of the building and towards the parking lot, the one just a bit further into the campus and not directly in front of the Language Arts building. 

Quackity walks with Techno, and with how much he talks without getting a single word reciprocated Techno might as well be a rock that just says “yeah” every now and then. Quackity finds it funny that he can throw in a ridiculous statement without Techno reacting because he isn’t even listening at this point.

When Techno finally notices that Quackity is forgoing his own car sitting in the closer lot to follow Techno, Techno scowls at him, expression asking _really?_ Quackity gives him a shit-eating grin. 

That scowl might have scared him when they were highschoolers—it _did_ , it terrified him—but Quackity has come to know that the scowl Techno is giving him right now is sarcastic, just like 95% percent of Techno’s personality. Unless he’s high, of course.

Techno gives one of his signature annoyed sighs he digs his thumb under his white button-up collar, hooking it on his minecraft-themed lanyard and pulling it out and over his head gracefully. His fingers grip the key fob, but he does not press the button to unlock the car yet. 

They are still walking towards Techno’s Camaro, but Techno slows to a stop, giving Quackity a deadpan look. “Quackity, why do you want in my car?” he asks in his usual dead monotone. His voice is edged with more irritation than usual, though. Quackity knows it is from a lack of his morning coffee. Or evening, considering it is past 3PM. 

Quackity, having stopped with Techno, considers answering with some sort of bantering remark, but then realizes several things while he is getting his first good look at Techno’s face today. The evening unclouded light of the evening gives Q a better look at the stress visible on his friend’s face.

Quackity could not see the dark circles under Techno’s eyes, not in the blue-hued classroom light; especially when they both sit in the very back where it is dark and gloomy and away from everyone else. And now he can see how dull and tangled Techno’s pink long hair is, realizing also that it is not in its usual braid or ponytail. 

The taller man is always one to take care of his hair; always making sure it is free of tangles. He is usually putting his hair in a ponytail while Wilbur is always the one that braids it. Because Techno always keeps Wilbur’s work for as long as he can before he has to shower, so the fact that it is not in a braid means Techno probably hasn’t visited Wilbur in a few days. 

Quackity figures that’s probably another reason for the stress. Techno is always visiting Wilbur, and vice versa. It’s just another factor that adds to Quackity’s perception of them as brothers. 

Also, Quackity remembers that, because Techno’s sleep schedule is fucked, his friend is probably sleep deprived. It makes Q realize that the extra edge in Techno’s voice might not just be an act of his facetious character. And they just got assigned a new essay today, so yeah, no wonder why the taller seems genuinely irritated today. 

Quackity figures he should let up on responding with another annoying answer. He decides to just give a genuine, bashful smile, hopefully rueful enough to let Techno know he is off of Quackity’s string of annoyance. “Well, Wilbur invited us _both_ for coffee at Lovely’s, so it would be better for me not to waste gas on my ride. Please?”

Techno stills for a moment, considering, then clicks his fob. The lights on Techno’s ashen gray Camaro glint noiselessly in response, and Quackity smiles widens as he follows Techno over the campus grass and preceding curb, hoping into the passenger’s side while Techno settles himself in the driver’s seat with the bare minimum energy.

Quackity starts rehashing what happens in class as Techno begins the five-minute drive to Lovely’s, occasionally splitting off into random topics of conversation. Techno reciprocates with more hums attentively than usual, and Quackity attributes it to mentioning that Wilbur invited them both. Perhaps also because Techno is on his way to get coffee.

He does not grab at the chance to talk about how he met Obama quite yet. Actually, Quackity still has not talked about him and Obama meeting up. Again, Quackity tries to avoid the implications of that, tries to avoid that whole tangle of emotions and realizations like he has been doing since they sang Wilbur’s song together. 

Quackity wonders why Wilbur asked for them to meetup. It is not _uncommon_ for Wilbur to invite them to lunch; it’s just--usually it is Tommy doing that, or more frequently, Quackity himself. Whenever _Wilbur_ calls a meeting, it usually means he is forcing all of them into a harsh study session for the sake of Tommy’s grades. 

His speculations and ramblings are cut short when Techno parks into one of Lovely’s front lots. They both enter inside, door silent of the ringing bell that used to be present a few months ago, before the renovations. They spot Wilbur almost immediately, sitting in the back corner booth, the one that they almost always sit in because it is usually undisturbed by neighboring occupied seats.

But Wilbur remains oblivious to their arrival; his head is hung over the table, pencil in hand writing in the familiar little notebook he uses to jot down lyrics and ideas. Wilbur’s class ends thirty minutes earlier than Q’s and Techno’s Composition I, so Wil’s prior arrival on Thursday afternoons is usual.

Quackity and Techno both get to the register and with the lack of a line, they are immediately greeted by Tubbo on the other side of the counter. “Hey! I thought one of you might come and join Wilbur,” he says with his usual smile. 

They both return the friendly greeting and order their drinks. Within a moment, they are both taking their respective usual drinks to the back booth. Wilbur flinches when he notices Techno looming beside him, and Quackity huffs a breath as he scoots into the opposing seats.

“Scooch,” Techno says when Wilbur takes out his earbuds and looks up at him in confusion.

“Oh,” Wilbur says in understanding, sliding himself and his shit over before Techno takes his seat.

“So what’d you wanna talk about?” Quackity asks Wil before opening his can of Monster. 

“Well-” Wil says as cuts himself off to shuffle through his disarray of papers in his binder before pulling out a letter. “-I got this invite to this charity event. From that organization I joined a month ago. I thought I would give it to you, Quackity,” he says, offering the paper.

Quackity takes the opened envelope and slips out the folded piece of paper inside, opening it. “What is it?” 

“It’s like an invite to a charity event,” Wilbur repeats uselessly.

With a little more attention, Quackity tries to find the catch. Wilbur wouldn’t give him an invite to anything classier than a library, so why…

 _Oh. The president is going to be there._ _What the-_

“What the hell, why is _Obama_ gonna be there?” Quackity asks incredulously, flipping the paper down to look at Wilbur as if the man can somehow explain it better than the informational sheet of paper in front of him.

Wilbur nods, grinning. “Yeah, you should go Quackity. Don’t you have a crush on him or something?” he asks with an annoying grin, completely ignoring Quackity’s question.

“I don’t!” Quackity whisper indignantly, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Nobody even knows about how he and Obama met up a couple days ago, or that they exchanged numbers, yet they already rag on him. No way he is gonna divulge that information now, not when they will just tease him to death.

Just as Techno is about to join in on their squabbling, Tommy enters the shop. Tommy sees them almost immediately and—because he isn’t a coffee addict like the others—heads straight over to join them. He does have a small coke can in hand, though.

“Eyy, everyone. Big Q,” he greets in his usual gritty, jesting voice. They in turn greet him—Wilbur with simple “hey” and Techno with an upward head nod—and Quackity scoots over so Tommy can sit. “Whatcha all doing?”

“I was just telling Quackity about this invite,” Wilbur says, gesturing with a pointed finger at the letter Q is still holding. “It's like a fundraiser or something, and the presidents gonna be there.”

Tommy nods with an approving noise, peeking his head into Quackity’s space to try and read the letter. Quackity just clutches the letter and glares. “Guys-- _Wilbur_ , I don’t--I don’t care about going,” he says, though the last bit is mumbled.

Tommy smirks, but before the three can bug Quackity more, Q continues. “Besides--why would I just--go _alone_? That would be boring. And think about how out-of-place I would be,” Quackity argues flippantly, rolling his eyes and dismissing the invite to Wilbur’s side of the table. 

“How did you get the invite, anyway?” Tommy asks, readjusting himself in his seat to fold his long legs into a criss-cross, even though his tall lanky frame can barely fit in the space comfortably. He grabs the paper and looks at it for himself.

“It’s from that Order of the Stone organization. You signed up for it too, Tommy,” Wilbur answers matter-of-factually. “You would know that you probably got the same invite if you ever checked your school email.”

“Wait-” Tommy fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I did?” 

Techno, pauses, lifting a brow as he, too, grabs his phone off the table and starts checking it. Quackity decides to do the same, because he _vaguely_ recognizes that organization name. He’s pretty sure they spammed him to join at the beginning of the semester, but he’s not sure.

After a moment, Tommy perks and announces, “Oh, I do! Quackity, I have the invite!”

“Oh, I have it too,” Techno mumbles. Quackity realizes he too, must have joined the Order of the Stone at one point because he also has the invite, perched at the top of his school email, right on top of a dozen other spam emails from the college board asking him to donate his life savings and some more.

“Hold on, didn’t we all sign up for this thing at the beginning of the semester?” Tommy inquiries, then squints at Quackity’s phone before the beanie boy realizes. “Wait, that’s an invite!” Tommy exclaims with a excited grin. “Quackity, _guys,_ we can _all_ go.”

Quackity glares at Tommy indignantly, then at the rest of them when they don’t immediately protest. On the contrary, Wilbur seems to _brighten_ at the idea, and even _Technoblade_ , the embodiment of an antisocial introvert, doesn’t seem too hesitant. Then again, it’s hard to tell because Techno’s face is not exactly readable, not with his constant deadpan expression and lack of body language to give his thoughts away.

“Oh come on, Quackity. We should all hang out. Besides, I want to see the president, too,” Wilbur says encouragingly, and Quackity can see the corners of the shit-eating grin hiding behind the hand innocently propping his chin up.

Wilbur and Tommy both seem eager and willing, but Techno eyes are now looking away, the one hint that says he doesn’t want to be dragged into it. Quackity uses that as an out, his wager to keep his dignity. So with an air of confidence—because Techno would never agree to go to such a large party with strangers—he says, “I’m not going unless Technoblade goes, too.”

Everyone’s eyes turn to Techno, and Q almost feels guilty for the instant pressure he put on his friend. Techno sighs and looks between the three, Not immediately objecting, much to Quackity’s nerves. Q’s eyes silently plead Techno for a head shake while Wilbur’s and Tommy’s plead for a nod.

Quackity knows he loses when Techno smirks at Quackity. Probably revenge for all the annoyance he has been giving Techno lately. “Yeah, I can go.”

Wilbur pumps his fist and gives a whispered, “ _yes_ ” while Tommy looks genuinely surprised, cheering nonetheless. They stay quiet because they are in a restaurant and they still have some semblance of manners. Quackity groans in half-baked annoyance. He’s not _completely_ bummed—mainly because Techno somehow agreed, which is a very rare thing—rather, he just finds the attention a bit embarrassing is all.

“Wait, when is it?” Techno asks suddenly, prompting Wilbur to grab the letter from where it is sitting on the table, neglected and crumpled from being passed around. 

“It’s uhh… says it's for the fifth. That’s a little more than a week away,” Wilbur answers. “I’m free,” he says, glancing at the others with expectant eyes.

Tommy sifts through his phone for a moment, opening up what Quackity figures to be his calendar app. “I’m free too,” Tommy says after nodding to himself. “It’s a Saturday.”

At that, Techno looks up from his own phone and also adds, “Oh, Saturday? Yeah, I’ll be free.”

The three then turn to Quackity, eyes expectant. Quackity purses his lips, groans exaggeratedly as he pretends to check his own calendar, even though he already knows he is going to be free that day. He gives in a moment later, plopping his phone on the table and confesses, “Fine, I’ll go. I’m free.”

The others grin, and even Techno shows amusement in the little upturn of lips. Quackity shrugs to himself. _Oh well, this might be pretty fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcome <3

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome! Let me know if you are uncomfortable with Tommy—what with him being a minor—using drugs in this fiction, I was a bit iffy on that. This is intended to be a crack-fic, but comments are not moderated, so let me know any complaints or otherwise! <3


End file.
